The Phoenix Crisis (42 page)

Calvin had to know if Nimoux was a
replicant. And so he thought of the only way he could test him. He
leaned into his mic and asked, “Captain, tell us about Remus
System. About how you tracked the Nighthawk there and what
happened.”

“
The Desert Eagle tracked
the Nighthawk and attempted to ambush it,” said Nimoux. “However,
the Nighthawk gave us the slip. We never caught up with the ship
again. Nor did we enter the Remus System at any point for any
reason.” His words were spoken plainly, coldly, and as a matter of
fact.

“
What about the Rotham fleet
that swarmed Remus System just minutes after the Nighthawk
escaped?” asked Calvin. “Tell them about the Rotham fleet!” He knew
that the real Nimoux must have detected the Rotham fleet as it was
inbound for Remus System. He also knew that the real Nimoux would
never endanger the Empire by lying about such a matter. He would
want the Assembly, and the military, and everyone else to know if a
threat as serious as a Rotham fleet inside Imperial space
existed.

“
There is no Rotham Fleet in
Imperial space and there never was,” said Nimoux, slowly and
clearly. “Not at Remus. Not at Abia. Not at all.”

Calvin stared at him and Nimoux stared back.
This convinced Calvin that Nimoux was indeed a replicant. Which
made him wonder what had happened to the real Nimoux. Most likely
he’d made himself a threat to the powers that be—probably he’d
tried to warn the military and intelligence community about the
Rotham Fleet he saw—which transformed him into a liability. Just
like Calvin. And like Calvin, they’d tried to make him go away.
Apparently succeeding. Calvin wondered if Nimoux was now space
dust, floating somewhere in the greatest, blackest ocean. If so…
then it was indeed a tragedy, and the Empire had lost one of its
most valuable citizens. Certainly whatever fate had befallen the
real Nimoux had befallen the Vice Admiral as well.  

Representative Tate took a moment to confer
with Lekovic and O’Neil at her sides, and then spoke into the mic
in front of her. “This committee has no further questions. I thank
the witnesses for their testimonies and hereby dismiss them.”

As Calvin left, eager to return to work and
unravel the highest echelon of the conspiracy, he noted a worried
look from Kalila. Her face was placid and calm but in her eyes he
could see the anxiety and the desperation. She would do all she
could here, but her influence was swiftly evaporating. Probably she
could no longer block a motion for a vote to challenge the King.
Now it was up to Calvin to get results. And soon. If he didn’t…

Calvin was afraid to imagine
what it would mean if he didn’t.
I’ll
succeed
, his eyes promised her.
I have to.

Chapter 29

“
Move along,” said a marine,
giving Nimoux a shove forward. He stumbled but managed to keep his
balance. He walked through a long corridor surrounded by a dozen or
more armed guards until they reached the flight deck. He didn’t
know where he was being taken, but welcomed the chance to be free
of the brig.

Ever since his forcible capture on the ISS
Wolverine, where he—an Imperial officer—was taken into custody by
fellow Imperial officers, he’d been left to rot in the Wolverine’s
brig with no explanation whatsoever. No charges had been preferred
against him, and no senior officers had come to speak with him or
answer any of the many questions that were swirling in his head by
the hundreds. For that matter, no one had shown any interest in
him. No explanation. No interrogation. Nothing. Just an empty cell,
a force field, plenty of silent guards, and a little bit of food
and water from time to time.

Nimoux had tried to make the best of it. He
knew his XO would never abandon him, not after Nimoux had given him
clear and specific orders to await his return. So Nimoux had waited
patiently. Taking the time to meditate and reflect. Trying to
organize his thoughts and push through the chaos—ever chasing his
center. But minutes had turned to hours. And hours had turned to
days. Nimoux lost hope that the Desert Eagle was still there
waiting for him. And it made him wonder what exactly was going on.
He’d asked the guards, trying to get even the most remote sense of
recent events, but the guards wouldn’t so much as utter a peep to
him.

And now they took him. Without explanation
or warning. Dragged him from his sleep out of the brig, down the
elevator, through the corridors and to the flight deck. Where
apparently a shuttle was waiting. There was no one to greet him. No
senior staff to explain what was going on or give him any clue.
Just soldiers and pilots—all of whom must have been ordered to
remain silent.

Nimoux took a deep breath as
they forced him to board the shuttle and strap in. A part of him
was afraid; he felt the tiniest waves of anxiety rise and fall
inside him.
Was he in danger? What did it
mean that he, a high-profile Intelligence Captain, could be taken
into custody like this? What did they plan to do with him? What did
this mean for the Empire?
He thought of the
Rotham fleet, warships inside Imperial space. And thought of
Calvin’s warnings about conspiracy and corruption.

With practiced calm he closed his eyes and
quieted his mind with one of his meditation exercises. Here—in this
confusing, confining, hostile environment—it was far more difficult
than usual. And a distracting blend of anxiety and curiosity
challenged his focus. Keeping him from finding his center. But the
practice did help him soothe his nerves and collect his thoughts.
He recognized that he didn’t have control of his current
situation—something he could not blame himself for, nor expect
himself to change at this time—and he accepted that, at least for
now, what was happening was out of his hands. It would be as fate
and destiny demanded. He was only a pebble floating on a tide.
Riding the waves wherever they took him.

The flight deck depressurized and the
massive jaws of the shuttlebay opened into space. Nimoux looked out
the window and watched as the blackness enveloped them. The shuttle
pulled away from the Wolverine and as it distanced itself from the
great ship’s many lights, tiny stars began to appear. Nimoux looked
at them, thinking they were a lot like people. So many, many of
them. And yet, compared to the vast black ocean surrounding them,
they were nothing. Burning with so much passion and concern,
glowing furiously, and yet, in the grand scheme of things… barely
even noticeable. Blinking out, one at a time, as their days came to
an end, and yet the galaxy moved forward unflinching.
Unaffected.

Despite all we do, despite
all we feel
, he thought,
in the end we are but meager stars. We live, we
die. Change remains the universal constant. What mattered so much
yesterday means less today and is forgotten tomorrow. We are but
flies in a whirlwind. Products of our environment. Taken by forces
far mightier than ourselves to places we rarely dream of, and
scarcely plan
.

It helped a little. He was able to partially
let go. Partially accept his situation. But, though he valued the
Polarian philosophy, he was still human, and could never quite
manage to separate himself from his concerns. His actions during
the Altair Mission haunted him. The faces of the fellow officers
he’d slain haunted his thoughts and dreams—whether he was asleep or
awake—and though Nimoux did not believe in such things, he felt as
if their ghosts walked beside him. Their spirits eternally tied to
his. Waiting for his moment to come and then, once he passed away,
they would be there before him. Wanting answers for what he’d done.
Explanations for his betrayal. And Nimoux would have nothing to
offer them. Only his unyielding, unweakening, undying regret.

If I die
here
, he thought, looking at the guards
next to him—large stocky soldiers toting firearms, knives, and
grenades—
if their plan is to take me to
some obscure place and kill me… I would deserve it.

They didn’t kill him. At least not yet. The
shuttle changed course and descended upon a brilliant,
white-and-blue planet. Like most habitable worlds, it was filled
with seemingly endless stretches of ocean, but there was land too.
He couldn’t recognize what world it was, not from this limited
vantage point, but most of the land appeared undisturbed and
undeveloped. No cities or mines or extraction colonies jumped out
at him. Just nature in its untouched, unspoiled, unrefined state.
He looked down on it from the heavens, enjoying the view out the
window, gazing down on the trees, and the rocks, and the tiny dots
of wildlife as if he were looking through the eyes of a god.

The shuttle landed at a small facility
that—as far as Nimoux could tell—was the only settlement on the
entire planet. He was forcibly escorted off the shuttle and into a
large courtyard. The dirt was soft under his boots, almost like
sand, and he had to squint to keep out the overwhelming brightness
of the local sun. It was hot too, probably about forty degrees
centigrade, and dry. He felt himself sweating profusely under the
scorching heat of his black uniform.

“
This way,” someone said,
and he was poked in the back with a baton. He complied and allowed
himself to be led across the courtyard away from the shuttle and to
a small set of buildings. They were portable structures, he could
tell. The mining industry used them extensively, they could be
transported easily and deployed and set up, or taken down and
packed, in less than a day. It was hard to tell how many there
were, but he counted over twenty. The largest of which looked like
it could house thirty people.

In the distance, all around, there was a
massive fence. It climbed high into the air, at least ten meters,
and—undoubtedly—reached down deep into the earth as well. Nimoux
noted several of its features and concluded that it was
electrically charged.

Am I in a prison
camp?
He wondered.

The guards led him out into the open, where
Nimoux could see a lot of other people. Most wore blue one-piece
jumpsuits, like prisoners, and a few guards patrolled in
black-and-white. He imagined that he’d be getting his own blue
jumpsuit and his first thought was that he’d welcome the chance for
some fresh clothes. He’d been stuck in his same uniform for days,
and now it stuck to him with sweat and grime.

The prisoners were distributed sparsely
across the massive courtyard space. A few were in small groups,
talking or playing a crude game with a cheap rubber ball and a wall
surface, but most were alone.

There was a loud roar and Nimoux turned to
see the shuttle lifting off. Headed back toward the sky above.
Leaving him here abandoned. Marooned. He felt like an old-fashioned
sailor stranded on a desert island. But he was not alone. As he
looked around and tried to count the guards and the prisoners, he
realized there were far too many to keep track of. And yet, despite
their numbers, he felt alone.

After a few minutes there was another roar
as another shuttle circled the compound and then landed on the far
side. Nimoux squinted and watched as several people were escorted
out of it. Many of them wore navy uniforms, one of them wore the
black-and-silver of Intel Wing, like Nimoux, and others wore
civilian clothes. After that shuttle departed, another landed. It
too disbursing prisoners. And then came two more. Nimoux watched
them all, and counted the new arrivals. Including himself there
were thirty new prisoners. He wondered if they’d been held in mass
and then transported to this prison site all at once, or if new
prisoners arrived every day.

“
Lafayette Nimoux,” he heard
a familiar voice behind him. “I spotted your black-and-silver
uniform from a mile away but I didn’t believe it ‘til just now.
Damned if they got you too.”

He turned to see a creased, sweaty,
sun-tanned version of Director Jack Edwards. He stood next to a
familiar looking woman. It took Nimoux a second to piece together
who she was. Her hair had been chopped short and her skin—like
Edwards’—had been darkened by the sun. But her facial features were
unmistakable. She was Vice Admiral Harkov, Commander of the Fifth
Fleet.

“
You were the last person I
expected to find here,” said Edwards. “At first I was sure I was
seeing a mirage.”

“
Director,” said Nimoux,
confused to see both him and the Admiral. “You’re prisoners?” he
asked.

Harkov nodded.

“
And so are you,” said
Edwards. “I don’t know why. I don’t know how. But whoever’s in
charge seems able to take whoever they want and throw them in here,
and—so far as I can tell—no one has cared enough to come and find
us.”

Nimoux found the whole situation strange and
inexplicable. He searched his mind, trying to make sense of it
while doing his best to ignore the scorching heat and the sensation
of burning on his pale skin. Under his thinning hair he could feel
the hot kiss of the sun.

“
How long have you been
here?” asked Nimoux. He’d known that Harkov was missing. According
to the files he’d read, the Andromeda ship and every hand aboard
had gone missing. But Edwards… he wasn’t listed as missing. In
fact, Nimoux had spoken with him over kataspace not a week before.
That man hadn’t been sun-tanned and thinned by poor prison diet and
malnutrition. The man standing before him was skin and bones and
bronzed like a statue.

“
Hard to count the time,”
said Edwards. “Don’t have any proof but the days feel longer here.
Much longer than a standard day. Maybe it’s the planet’s slow turn.
Maybe it’s just because there is nothing to do and every moment is
tedious, hot agony.”